


"Team Building Exercise"

by subspace31



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Team Talon (Overwatch)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-08-02 08:06:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16301279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subspace31/pseuds/subspace31
Summary: A combination of Sombra's nerdiness, Widowmaker's apathy, Doomfist's favor, Moira's acceptance, and finally Reaper's nostalgia launches the greatest trainwreck since The Fall of Overwatch. The only question now is when they'll TPK. And whether or not Sombra's dice are rigged. And when Reaper will strangle them all. And how McCree let himself be talked into this.Okay, so there are a few more questions.





	1. Prologue: Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I am not bilingual. Any misuse of a foreign language can be blamed on Google Translate, me not taking High School Spanish, and Talon for being progressive.
> 
> Do I need to say I don't own Overwatch?

All Reaper wanted on the absurdly-long flight back to Talon HQ was peace, quiet, and a little bit of respect. Predictably, he got none of those, but at least his teammates had the decency to wait until halfway through the flight.

It was him, Widowmaker, Sombra, and Doomfist who went on the mission, so it was obviously Sombra who instigated his headache. He was lying on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling, when he heard her smug voice go, “So, Gabriel, is there anything you’d like to confess about your past that you’ve been hiding from us?”

He felt the others’ eyes shift from Sombra to him suspiciously, so he quickly thought back to everything he was hiding from his teammates. Honestly, nothing paged as need-to-know, so he slowly said, “...No?”

He could feel Sombra’s smirk get bigger. “Really, Gabe? Nothing from, say, your Blackwatch days?”

He huffed in annoyance. “Sombra, any secrets I had in my ‘Blackwatch Days’ were blasted in every tabloid across the world for months. Buzz off.” With that, he closed his eyes and went back to pretending to nap.

Sombra, of course, had no intentions of letting him do so, much to his chagrin. “Final chance, Gabe! You sure you don’t just want to own up?”

“Just say it, Sombra,” Doomfist snapped.

“Fine, fine.” Gabe briefly felt pleased as he could hear Sombra’s smirk fall, before it whisked back up as he saw the purple glow of her implants pulling an image in his peripherals. “ _ Querido  _ Gabe here used to be a D&D nerd.”

There was a pregnant pause before Widowmaker audibly rolled her eyes and Doomfist gave a relieved groan. Sombra, feeling their attention slipping, quickly scrambled into an explanation Reaper didn’t listen to. Instead, he glanced over at the screenshot. The picture showed him glaring at a collection of papers spread out in front of him, a hand on his forehead and a stressed look on his face. The only thing that gave away that he was playing D&D was the dice box next to him (and that D&D was the only time he gave a darn near the end). He had no idea how the picture had gotten on the internet, who’d taken it, or why Sombra had obtained a special interest in it.

“Yes, I played Dungeons and Dragons years ago,” he said begrudgingly, interrupting Sombra’s frantic ramblings, which had descended into Spanish at some point. “All of the main Blackwatch crew did, including O'Deorain,” he interjected. Sombra started squawking again, but he cut her off a final time, explaining, “It was a ‘team building exercise.’ Don’t see why it matters now. Where’d you even find that?”

Sombra snorted. “Morrison’s twitter, from ages ago. Just Blackwatch and your  _ novio _ then?”

Gabe sighed and closed his eyes again. “First of all, no. You’ve been reading too many old gossip-rags if you think Jack and I were ever a thing. Secondly, no. The game was just between us Blackwatch members. We occasionally let the cool kids create a character and play a game or two with us, but they were never able to play regularly, so it was normally a small game.” Suddenly a bit uncomfortable, he quickly tried to steer the conversation away, saying, “It was a long time ago and is pointless at the moment, so drop it.”

“Did it work?” Doomfist silenced, sitting up straight suddenly.

Reyes opened his eyes and stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I’m sorry?”

“You said it was a team-building exercise,” he elaborated. “Did it work?”

Reaper gave another reluctant sigh, but reflected, “I guess so. Learned more about Fio besides her name. Got the ninja to relax a little. First time I saw O’Deorian unironically smile.” He realized he was reminiscing and shook himself out of it. It wasn’t worth it.

“It’s decided then,” Doomfist declared, ignorant of Reyes’ internal conflict. “How do you play?”

Gabe snapped back to reality, blindsided by Doomfist’s remark. “What?” Then he connected the dots, and growled, “No, we are not playing D&D.”

“And whyever not?” Doomfist shot back. “Not with the leadership council, no, but just between the strike team. It’d certainly boost teamwork in the field and morale.”

“Who knows? Maybe you’ll learn our names,” Widowmaker mused from the bunk above his.

Reaper shot a glare up at the ceiling. “Whose side are you on?” he snarled.

He could sense her shrug in the bunk above him. “ _ Je m'en fiche _ ,” she drawled. “If we do it, it’s ridiculous, and if we don’t do it, it’s ridiculous. It’ll be terrible, but at least this way I reserve the right to say I told you so.”

He decided that made no sense, but ignored it in favor of pointing out, “None of you know how to play, and there’s no way in hell I’m helping. More importantly, you don’t have a Dungeon Master.”

“I can pick up a book,” Doomfist reluctantly decided, doubtful in the face of terminology he didn’t recognize.

Reaper snorted. “Good luck with that.”

A few seconds of blissful silence went by before he realized that Sombra had been quiet for too long to not be up to something. Then there was the loud ping of a vid-call connecting from her bunk and her chipper voice echoed across the small dorm. “ _ Hola, tía _ ! 

“What do you want, brat?” Moira’s voice cut.

“We were interrogating  _ gruñón  _ on playing D&D in Blackwatch when he mentioned your name! Then Akande mentioned starting a new game…”

“Tell them I’m only playing if the cowboy DMs again,” Moira responded absently.

There was a beat before Reaper covered his face with his hands and shouted, “I was leaving him out of it!”

Moira chuckled. “I’m staying out of it if he’s not there. No D&D is better than bad D&D.”

“Figured you’d protest more,” Widowmaker mused.

“Oasis is full of nerds,” Moira brushed off. “And none of them know how to roll dice like professionals. I gave up there a long time ago.”

“Who’s the cowboy?” Sombra exploded as her brain unfroze and three screens opened in front of her, immediately throwing dozens of photos and forums around in excitement.

Reaper gave one last spiteful sigh before, seeing it was now unavoidable, confessing, “Jesse McCree.”

Sombra smacked her forehead, unintentionally throwing Moria’s holoprojection across the room. “Of course! So how are we kidnapping him?”

“ _ Recruiting _ him,” Doomfist corrected.

“Good luck with that,” Moria snarked from across the room.

“I’ll do it,” Reaper muttered.

All conversation paused as everyone’s attention turned to him. “You will?” Doomfist asked.

“Well, if you’re going to do it either way…”

“Yep,” Sombra cheered.

“Yes,” Doomfist confirmed.

“ _ Oui _ ,” Widowmaker added.

“Definitely,” Moira summarized.

“...then the least I can do is make sure it’s done right,” Reaper concluded. “At least with me, there’s a chance he’ll come willingly.”

“I could go get him,” Moira offered. Reyes gave her general direction a look. Despite not being able to see him, she annexed, “Fair point. Have fun.” With that, a closing ping signified Moria ending the call.

Moments after Moira hung up, the verticoper’s momentum came to a stop and the intercom tweeted, “You have arrived at your destination.” Widowmaker swung down from her bunk and left, with Sombra following close behind, hyperly commenting to Widow’s retreating form. Reaper slowly dragged himself up once they left.

As he exited, Doomfist stopped him with the smaller arm on his shoulder. Reaper shrugged it off, but stopped, attentive. “I’m serious about this, Gabriel,” he said with a small smirk. “Find your old teammate. Figure out how you’ll get him to agree to this. You’ve convinced me this game has a lot of cooperative building potential.”

“I won’t mess up my homework, sir,” Reaper dryly promised. “Is that all?”

Doomfist closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, before shaking his head slowly as a small smile came to his face. “That is all. Dismissed.”

 


	2. Prologue: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sunset, a reunion, and an unfortunate lack of cigars all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCree's accent is tricky to get right, and I'm from Kansas. A big part of it is reading it in his voice and not overreaching.
> 
> One day I'll get this scheduled and have regular updates and all that jazz, but for now, I'll be happy with getting this out before the Blizzcon McCree Short (plz) officially uncanonizes all my hard work.

Jesse McCree had traveled all over the world, seen a million different sunsets, and the ones he always came back to were the western American ones. He supposed it was nostalgia: memories from his childhood, the good Deadlock days, Watchpoint San Francisco. The colors were unlike anything else in the world. He was biased.

It was one of these sunsets he watched now, staring up at the sky from the patio of a farmhouse. Canyon cliffs stretched up and across his view, fading into the distance as the sun set in between them, right down the middle. The multicolored arcs in the sky painted murals across the ancient Pueblo structures built in the rock walls. The air smelt of dust and the faint remnants of his cigar. The temperature was that perfect mix of warm air and cool breeze.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost ignore the sniper atop the south cliff face, whose scope only caught the sunlight briefly half an hour ago, and the faint rummaging inside the supposedly vacant house that was trying - and barely failing - to disguise itself as rats.

To test his hypothesis, he fingered an empty bottle next to his chair. He waited a while, making his movements seem slurred and reluctant, as if he were considering heading inside for a second drink but didn’t really want to move. Then, with a deft flick of his hand, McCree threw the bottle into the air. A bullet shattered the bottle before it could begin its descent, followed eventually by a distant crack.

‘ _ Supersonic, _ ’ McCree noted. ‘ _ Observant. Helluva shot. _ ’ Inside the house, the noise stopped.

“Ya can come out anytime,” McCree shouted into the house. “It ain’t my place.”

There were another few moments of silence before the wind changed direction and shadows crept up from under the door. The air shivered as they oozed up to form the shape of a man. McCree was only a little surprised; he knew he’d gotten on the wrong side of Talon again, but he didn’t think they’d send the Reaper after him already.

“I don’t suppose you’re hirin’?” McCree drawled, fingers splayed clearly across his face and on the armrest of his chair in a faux sign of boredom. He knew he could get a few shots off on the Reaper first, but was pinned in place by the sniper. He’d play for now.

The Reaper copied his poise, slouching against the porch wall with his arms crossed. “You’d be surprised,” he rasped.

McCree’s eyebrows shot up to his hat. “Really? You bring a marksman to all your social calls?” He asks, jerking his head to the surrounding cliffs.

An ominous wind went through the Reaper that could’ve been mistaken for a huff or sigh as he glanced in the corresponding direction. “Tag-a-long.”

McCree was slightly taken aback. He supposed he could’ve expected a job interview at some point, but assumed it’d be more discreet. This felt like a trap. His fingers itched for a cigar. Nonetheless, he drew his hand away from his face and motioned in front of him vaguely . “Give me your pitch, then,” he snarked. “I’m all ears.”

The Reaper didn’t speak for a minute, and the mood hung with apprehension. Just when McCree was ready for a strike team to rappel from the sky with guns blazing, his scrawling voice ground out, “You haven’t responded to the Recall.”

McCree shrugged. “Overwatch and I didn’t part on the best of terms. Is that all this is ‘bout?”

“No,” Reaper admitted. “But it contributes.”

“Look,” McCree input. “I ‘preciate the offer and all, but that’s a great point. I’m less interested in shootin’ things for Talon than I am for Overwatch, so why don’t y’all be on your way?”

“That’s not why I’m here,” the Reaper says emotionlessly. “Talon is more interested in your…  _ extracurricular _ skills.”

McCree had no idea what it was talking about. Nodding as if he did though, he drummed his fingers on the side of the chair and asked, “And what in the hell makes you think I’m gonna say yes?”

The Reaper chuckled. “I don’t,” it said. “I just got twenty bucks riding on it.”

McCree froze.

The sun was nearly set. Most of the sky was black, except for a few final glimmers of color barely visible, and the canyon was barely bright enough to make out the details of the Reaper’s form. Jesse vaguely remembered the modifications O'Deorain had begun to make to Reyes a bit before he left, but he’d blocked out a lot of those memories. It was too dark to tell.

“Take the mask off,” he hissed.

The Reaper shifted. It looked almost uncomfortable. “Jesse...” it started.

“Do it,  _ Reyes _ .”

There was a beat before it lifted a claw and pulled the mask away from its face. It’d been almost ten years and it was nearly pitch black, but Jesse McCree could’ve recognized the face of Gabriel Reyes if he’d been blind and insane for a century.

“Well, whaddya know,” McCree chuckled. “Ya still look like shit, Reyes.”

Gabe let out a small laugh of his own, the faint light revealing a faint bit of mournful amusement on his face. “Likewise, McCree.”

McCree instinctively pulled out his lighter and reached for a cigar, before remembering he burnt his last one watching the sunset. Instead, he just lit the lighter, using the light from the small flame to study Reyes’ face. He looked pale and all kinds of fucked-up, but there was still some of the old bitch in there. The patio was silent for a while.

“Why’d ya do it, Reyes?” McCree asked softly. “Why’d ya blow up Swiss?”

This time McCree recognized the sigh for what it was as Reyes turned his head to the side, eyes downcast, forehead wrinkled. The sun was completely gone when he finally spoke. “I didn’t.”

McCree scoffed. “Bullshit. There’s two faked deaths, a smoking pile of rubble, and ten years that say otherwis’. Why’d you try to merc Morrison?”

At that, he laughed. “Oh, I tried to kill Jack,” he clarified between dry snickers. “Boy Scout had it coming, but someone else set off the bomb.”

“Really? And who woulda done that?”

Reyes shrugged. “Overwatch didn’t have a whole lot of friends at the end. Talon’s an easy scapegoat, but it just as easily could’ve been anybody with a letter bomb.”

McCree huffed, leaning forward. “And it's just coincidence that you’re in Talon now? Gimme a break, Reyes.”

“Maybe it is.” He pushed himself up off the wall, squinting into the light of the lighter. “Everybody in Talon has agendas, though. At least we’re upfront about them.”

“So what’s your agenda,  _ Reaper _ ?” McCree observed his former mentor for another moment. He wasn’t sure if he was lying or not. He supposed it didn’t matter.”

Reyes tilted his head up, eyes boring holes into the ceiling, searching for an answer. He crossed his arms in front of him, the sighed and grunted, “You remember all those old comics? Iron Man and Captain America and the lot?”

“‘Course,” McCree confirmed, curious about where he was going with this.

“One of the big theme in those books, about how heroes invite conflict? Applies to Overwatch.” Reyes glanced back down, and seeing McCree was still listening, continued. “Would Null Sector have been so extreme if they didn’t know there’d be a response? Would Talon be anything more than a narcissistic political platform for the Omnic-hating elite?” He shrugged one last time, concluding with, “How many people suffered because of Overwatch? They sure suffered because of Blackwatch.”

“So you want to end Overwatch to save the world?”

Reyes ughed. “Don’t put it so idealistically. Overwatch is a collection of dreamers and cuckoolanders and fools who do more damage than good. The sooner they die, the sooner people take matters into their own hands.”

“They haven’t taken matters into their own hands for ‘bout a decade now,” McCree pointed out.

“Then it’s worth the bloody shot,” Reyes growled. “But we’ve seen proof -  _ historical _ proof - that Overwatch is not infallible. They did more harm than good last time they were around. At least they’d be gone for good.”

McCree grimaced. “Fine. Fine, goddammit.” He lent back, clicking the lighter shut and staring out into the starry sky. “So what the hell ya want me for? You know more ‘bout anybody still around than me. What  _ extracurricular  _ use do ya have for me?”

“You’ll figure it out.” He leaned back again, clicking his mask back into place nodding in the direction over McCree’s shoulder. “He’s all yours.”

A whirring sound cranked up behind him.

“Sonuvabitch,” McCree managed to get out, and then something hit him hard in the back of the head, and all he saw was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the schematics planned out (character sheets, campaign plans, etc), but the format is gonna be tricky. Do I write it from McCree's POV? From one of the players'? The characters'? I'm sure it'll come together as I write it, but any advice, comments, or concerns are always appreciated.
> 
> Next up is the Session Zero. These are comedically horrible for my group, and we're not international terrorists (I think), so it'll be fun to write! Also, McCree meets Talon.


	3. Prologue: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doomfist finalizes D&D preparations and continues to be the only one doing any actual work. Well, "actual."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a loooong time. How have you been?
> 
> I'm not dead! I'll admit, I didn't expect to wait six months to post the next chapter. Life happened; nothing terrible, luckily, and it should all be resolved. Updates will be coming more frequently, even more so when Summer hits.
> 
> Bonus internet points to be awarded if anyone recognizes the quote at the top of the page. Its couplet is at the bottom if you need a clue.
> 
> Enjoy!

Akande “Doomfist” Ogundimu straightened his suit as he walked briskly down the hallways of the Talon compound. The halls were clear and pristine in a very modern style, with marble walls and stripes of vivid color lights along the floor directing traffic. While much of the compound was delegated to the edgy and gaudy designs of the Council, this part was much more diplomatic. It was also largely vacant, with only a few lackeys respectfully parting before him. It was good that they did so too, as his massive mechanical arm made it awkward to politely squeeze through crowds. He remembered one unpleasant encounter with Carly from Accounting and shuddered. He was so glad he had her transferred to Kansas.

His arm chose that moment to snag on a pocket, so he paused for a moment to carefully extract it without tearing any of the fabric. It was a delicate process, with the ornamental spikes and shiny plating not cooperating with modern fashion. He did not typically wear this ceremonial and intimidating design with such outfits, choosing to equip it primarily for combat use and allow for more streamlined designs to aid his charisma in diplomatic settings.

He was making an exception this time, however. First impressions are important.

Finally unhooking his arm, he took the opportunity to inspect the rest of his attire. His tie caught his attention as slightly sloppy and unsatisfactory, so he delicately removed it as he began slowly advancing again. Continuing to let his mind wander as he went through the mastered motions, he considered his arm a bit further. While most would find the disproportional limb cumbersome and a nuisance, he had grown accustomed to its presence. Pinching the tie carefully between two fingers, he completed the knot swiftly and stopped outside the door to his destination. 

Showtime.

The electronic lock pinged as the door slid open. The inside of the room was not as appealing as the halls, choosing a more minimalist approach as opposed to a modernist. It contained mostly necessities: a small bed, a skinny desk, a thin chair, a short table, and two doors that led to a closet and a bathroom. The walls were a similar white to those in the hall, although not quite as textured. The lights were bright, just short of uncomfortable. The room itself was, quite frankly, boring. The main attraction was the dirty cowboy sitting on the bed, slouched with his back to the wall, a smoking cigar in his hand, and a hat over his eyes..

“I see you received our gift basket,” Akande said as he stepped into the room, pivoting slightly to fit through the door. Indeed, a plastic-wrapped basket was torn open on the table and a variety of items were scattered across the room.

The cowboy - McCree - hummed, lifting the hat from his eyes and taking a long drag of his cigar, exhaling a plume of smoke before speaking. “Sure did. Not gonna lie, I’m gettin’ a lotta mixed messages here. You treat all your prisoners this nice?”

Akande let out a quick laugh, approaching the bed. “Oh no. If you were a prisoner, you would know.” He smiled and extended his regular sized hand. “Akande Ogundimu. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. McCree.”

McCree grunted, leaning forward slightly to clasp the offered palm. “Likewise, although I get the feelin’ we’ve been acquainted somewhere before, Mr. Doomfist.”

“Perhaps. No matter.” He took a step back, surveying McCree with interest. The outlaw leaned back again, only glancing the other up and down briefly before returning his attention to his cigar. “We want to offer you a job, Mr. McCree.”

“Jus’ McCree,” the man said, drumming his fingers on the wall. “I heard your offer from Rey - Reaper. Well, I heard  _ of _ your offer. I didn’t get too many details before our conversation was interrupted.”

“Shame,” Akande said, inspecting the nonexistent fingernails of his gauntlet.

“Sure,” McCree snarked, not convinced. “It’s jus’ that, as I told Reaper, I ain’t here to shoot things for Talon, so I’d hate to disappoint…”

“No need. Talon has further interest in your extracurricular skills, as vouched for by both Reyes and Moira via their time in Blackwatch.”

McCree’s eyebrows shot up. “Moira’s in Talon? That… don’t surprise me.” His face then scrunched up in a mix of confusion and pain. “Extracurricular skills in Blackwatch? You don’t mean- goddammit.”

“Well, yes. We would like to offer you a position of ‘Strike Team Efficiency Coordinator’ with a subpart as ‘Official Dungeon Master.’”

“Shut the fuck up,” McCree muttered, more to himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, groaned, and thumped his head against the back wall. “Lord, y’all assholes are the shadiest bunch o’ assholes ever. Y’all couldn’t jus’ say you wanted me for D&D?”

Doomfist shifted on his feet slightly. “Do you accept then?”

McCree’s eyes shot open as he glared back at him. “Yeah, sure. But I got a few conditions.”

Giving a self-satisfied smirk, Doomfist leaned back and splayed his arms in front of him. “Name them.”

“One,” McCree said, leaning forward again. “Is money.”

Doomfist frowned, grabbing the thin chair and sitting down. It creaked under his weight, but didn’t collapse. “An appropriate salary can be arranged. What did you have in mind?”

McCree’s eyebrows shot up again. “I was thinkin’ more of an official budget, but I’ll take that too.”

At that Doomfist scowled. “Would it be possible to condense those into one?”

“You want me to pay out of pocket to DM for an international group of terrorists?”

“Some here would view you as a hostage and not pay you at all.”

McCree laughed at that, taking the opportunity to puff on the cigar he’d almost forgotten. “Maybe. But you seem too polite for all that. I don’t reckon you agree with that hypothesis.”

“Conceded. An official budget will be arranged, as well as a salary that the Talon Leadership Council deems appropriate. Is that acceptable?”

McCree chuckled dryly. “For now, sure. Second is materials.”

Doomfist’s scowl disappeared, replaced with a frown. “Elaborate, please.”

“Well, D&D has a lotta small movin’ bits. Dice, miniatures, maps, props, the works. I imagine I ain’t allowed to go out on the town and shop e’ry weekend?”

“While you will be allowed a degree of freedom inside the compound, you will not be allowed to leave the facility.”

“Thought so,” McCree nodded. “So I’ll need a way to get the things I need. I could online shop, but it’d need to be delivered somewhere.”

“A reasonable request,” Doomfist acquiesced. “A dead drop location will be decided on.”

“And a third party will need to pick it up,” McCree quickly added. “Spoilers and all.”

“Very well. Is that all?”

“Nah, jus’ one more thing. I’ll need more of a ‘creative workspace..” At that, McCree gestured around him to the bleak, monotone room.

Doomfist shook his head. “Unacceptable. This wing of the facility was designed specifically for diplomatic prisoners. It is the only place that is both secure and accommodating enough for a… guest of your caliber.”

“Gotcha,” McCree said dryly. “I’m a prisoner, no way ‘round that.”

“Don’t take it so poorly,” Doomfist comforted. “There are those here who still hold a grudge for some of your work in Blackwatch; they demanded the oubliette or worse.”

“That’ll help me sleep,” McCree snarked. “Am I at least allowed to do some interior decoratin’?”

“I’ll allow it. Simply slip your purchases together and they’ll be assigned to a squad for pick-up and delivery. They’ll be screened, of course, and a violation of our trust will result in appropriate action being taken.”

“Sure, sure.” Grumbling, McCree leaned forward a final time and stuck his hand out. “Those are my terms, I ‘spose.”

Grinning, Doomfist shook the extended arm again. “I look forward to working with you, McCree. When can you get started?”

Snorting, McCree nodded but didn’t lean back. “Jus’ as soon as I get somethin’ to write on. Assemble the party and we’ll host a session zero.” At Doomfist’s blank look, he elaborated, “A tutorial session of sorts. Roll up characters, coordinate backstories, the works. Y’all know the rules?”

“Vaguely,” Doomfist answered sheepishly. “Reyes is explaining bits and pieces here and there.”

“Well, it’d help to have a vague understandin’ beforehand, but it ain’t nothin’ that won’t be a problem.” McCree relaxed a bit backward, but as an afterthought asked, “Who exactly will be playin’?”

“Just the Talon Strike Team,” Doomfist answered. “Myself and Reyes, obviously. Then we’ll have Sombra, our hacker, Widowmaker, our sniper, and Moria, our field medic.”

McCree bit back a groan and grumbled, “I’m familiar with her.”

“We may have more joining us, depending on how recruitment efforts proceed,” Doomfist continued, ignoring McCree’s remarks. “We’ll have to fetch Moria from Oasis before we begin, I’m sure, but we should be ready in a week or so. Is that enough time to prepare on your end?”

“Not givin’ me too much time to work with, no, but I imagine I ain’t have too much to do otherwise.” McCree laid down on his bed, placing his hat over his eyes and flicking the dying remnants of his cigar away. “I’ll get started soon as I have a notebook or tablet of some sort.”

Seeing his cue, Akande stood and bowed regally. “I’ll have it sent along shortly. Have a pleasant day, McCree.” Then he turned and exited the room, the door sliding closed and locking behind him and cutting off McCree’s farewell remarks.

“Go well?” A gravelly voice rasped in his ear.

A lesser man might’ve jumped or flinched, but Akande managed to keep his sudden surprised terror internal. Pivoting slightly, he found himself face to face with Reyes. He was dressed in a hoodie a little too large with a beanie, a combination Akande hadn’t seen in a very long time. His scarred features faked boredom but there was an underlying curiosity there too. After all, one didn’t just wander into the Diplomatic Wing.

“Just swell,” he responded, pausing only to double-check the door’s lock was secure before beginning his walk back to his office. “His skills better be worth it; he haggles like a fish merchant.”

Reyes chuckled, following him silently. “He will be. You’ll see.”

Akande hummed in thought. “All the same, the Leadership Council won’t be as appreciative of his presence. I trust I can rely on your vouching for his character?”

That got a vague grunt of displeasure from behind him, but the reply came, “Yeah, sure. I’ll put in a good word to management.”

Sighing, Akande chose to ignore that. “I also need a monitored tablet capable of shopping and delivery to an arranged drop off location for delivery here.”

“You better get on that then.”

Akande turned and stared blankly at Reyes. “I’m delegating that to you.”

“Well, you can dele-shove-it-up-your-ass,” Reyes grumbled. “I’m not your lackey.”

That made him blink. Reyes had always been a little shit, but he’d never been this openly insubordinate. He wondered if it was connected to the return of the cowboy. Interesting. “Very well,” Akande said slowly, studying Reyes for a few more moments before resuming his walk. 

They walked momentarily in silence. He pulled out his tablet as they did so, dwarfing it in the palm of his metal gauntlet as he typed out a few messages with his left hand.

“Moira’s on a jet here,” Reyes barked out, breaking the silence.

“Is she?” Akande hummed.

Reyes grunted in the affirmative. “She practically dropped the call immediately when I told her we got him.”

“Curious. I did not expect to her to react so viscerally to D&D.”

Reyes laughed at that, startling him. “No, it’s the cowboy she’s excited about. He’s traumatized by her and she knows it. She hasn’t fucked with him for years.”

It was Akande’s turn to chuckle. “This will be entertaining, then. What about the other two?”

“Sombra’s happy. Guess she got excluded from the Teenage Brats Tabletop Club or something. She’s been talking Widowmaker’s ear off for days, and the Spider’s getting desperate. Stowaway-ed on the trip to the Pueblos to get away from her.”

“She still plans on playing, though?”

“Hasn’t told me otherwise. She…” Reyes trailed off, thinking. Akande glanced backwards, waiting. Reyes bit his lip, finally saying, “She used to sit in on a few games, back in the Blackwatch days. When we had Gérard guest play.”

_ That _ was a new development. Akande stopped and turned around, checking the hallway as he did so. “Does she remember?” He asked.

Reyes scoffed. “You tell me. Talon nabbed her before me. I don’t know how her conditioning works.”

“Nor do I,” Akande confessed. “The process was too… unpleasant for my tastes. I believe Moira would know the specifics.”

“Is there anybody she hasn’t traumatized yet?”

Akande laughed loudly. “She hasn’t gotten me yet,” he said after he stopped, picking his pace back up.

“That’ll change when you see her play,” Reyes remarked.

By that point they had finally reached his office, and as he entered Reyes chose not to follow him, standing in the doorway. The circular, dark room was lined in bookshelves filled with old tomes and three large holo screens that showed live feeds of various cities throughout the world in place of windows. He grabbed a blank spiral notebook as he walked around his desk in the center of the room and tossed it to the man, who caught it. “Take that down to McCree. Or have somebody else do it, if you’re still feeling insubordinate.”

Reyes looked about to say something - another insult, an apology, a joke; Akande didn’t know - but stopped himself. Instead he just nodded and said, “Yes sir.”

As he turned to leave, Akande called out, “And Reyes.” When he looked over his shoulder, he added, “Don’t do it again.” With a nod, Reyes left.

With that, Akande sat down and began the tedious process of unfastening his ceremonial arm and switching it out for a more practical one. There was work to do, and somebody had to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Session Zero, I promise. This chapter did originally feature it via McCree's POV, but it quickly became a convoluted mess of rushed introductions, awkward conversations, and terrible flow. I scrapped the whole thing (contributing to the reason this took so long) and I'm much happier with this result.
> 
> Gotten most of the details worked out but I'm always open to suggestions. As one of my players says often, "thoughts, feelings, opinions?"
> 
> I hope we can put our differences behind us. For science. You monster.

**Author's Note:**

> Internet cookies to be awarded for deciphering why McCree is the perfect DM.
> 
> I have a rough idea on who's playing what character, but your interpretations are welcome! I also don't have any ships planned, but if there's an overwhelming desire for a certain pairing I'll probably give it my best shot!


End file.
